Getting Clean
by Insideavoice
Summary: You don't want this to be the end of her. So for now, you help her remove her shoes and you try to persuade her to lay down and get some rest.  She laughs and says, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."  You want to say, "That's what I'm afraid of."
1. Thinking About Getting Clean

**Author's note: I've been wanting to write in this perspective for a while but I really didn't have much of a plan when I wrote this. So it's pretty random and sort of jumps all over the place, but please bare with me.  
>Basically I've always been kind if interested DrewAmber's whole relationship.  
>And this story takes place in the episode before the Season 2 finale. Before the accident.<br>Also: uses references/lyrics from Amber's gorgeous "Graveyard Song" I can't take credit for the amazing poetic lyrical beauty that make that song. I know. Sorry.**

**Enjoy, please?**

It's three o'clock on Monday morning. You can't sleep. You're waiting to hear that _sound_. Almost five hours after telling Mom you're hitting the sack, your wish is finally granted when you hear the unmistakable creak of footsteps on stairs. You know it's your older sister. Her steps have that soft and slow, loping quality to them at hours like these. You have heard them more times these last few days, than in the entire span you've been at Grandma and Grandpa's combined. Because you are well aware that she was out late for the fourth time this past week. You would know.

It doesn't even matter that you tried to tell yourself that her old teenage rebellion days had essentially and thankfully vanished with that rainy day last spring when she returned home tearfully with Mom, Uncle Adam and cousin Haddie in tow.

At the current moment though, you think you can hear her stumble drunkenly outside your bedroom door. No. You realize that's a lie. You _know_ she's out there drunk, and quite possibly high, giggling too loudly at this late—early?—hour.

You open your door to let her in. She doesn't notice. She's too busy laughing about something to herself. You remember lately how you wanted to hear that care-free laugh again—even if it's directed at you.

You've been worrying about how distant she's been these last few weeks. You wish desperately that you knew what to say to her anymore. Mom doesn't seem to know either. "I'm sorry you didn't get into college" just seems insensitive.

So instead of saying those all too futile words that just won't come anyway, you whisper a hesitant yet urgent "Amber!" as you take a small step into the hallway, joining her.

But she doesn't hear you. By now, your smart, hip, _cool _older sister is bopping around to some song in her head and you wonder what it is that's in her heart.

Still you remember hearing her sing at open mike night with the rest of the family there supporting her. And now, instead of feeling that pride of being her younger brother, you question the sincerity of her words then: "_I've been thinking about getting clean…and rising up at a decent hour." _You think it's funny and ironic, but not in the right, laughable sort of way.

As you take note of her red eyes, you wonder when you'll be able to trust her again. To depend on her like a little brother should. You don't mind helping her through whatever she's going through right now but you just wish that she went about it differently.

You feel dirty. Like an accomplice of some crime. And judging by the smell of booze on her breath and the odor of pot radiating from her thin jacket, you know it's true. And you wish you knew what to do.

But at the moment, you only pull her away, down the hall to her bedroom. You hold her hand like she once so reassuringly grasped yours on your first day of kindergarten when Dad overslept and forgot he had to walk you two to school.

You be sure to shut the door slowly and with care to avoid waking Grandma or Grandpa. You don't know what you would do if they heard the noise and told Mom.

When you turn around, your sister is laughing again. It seems you're hilarious now. She's laughing at you. But you don't _feel_ hilarious. You don't say a thing. Your sister giggles some more as she pokes the crease that's arisen out of worry between your eyebrows.

"Amber, not now. Please," you whisper-plead, the street lamps and moonlight filtering through her open window, her apparent earlier escape route, the light somewhat fading in the darkness.

But that doesn't keep the giggles down. Your sister only laughs harder. "What's got your panties in a twist, Grandma?"

You feel a reluctant smile tug at your lips ever so slightly. The sarcastic edge in her tone makes this seem almost normal. _Familiar_. Okay. Comfortable, even.

But then you remember. You remember how late it is—or early (you still haven't decided which.) And you remember that she's high. Off of what, you don't know. You're not sure you want to. You're not even sure where it was she's been all night. You do, however, realize that the consequences could very well land her in jail, or—you swallow the thought with no small amount of difficulty—her deathbed.

You don't want this to be the end of her. So for now, you help her remove her shoes and you try to persuade her to lay down and get some rest.

She laughs and says, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

You want to say, "That's what I'm afraid of."

But instead you say nothing.

You almost want to wake Mom up but you stay where you are, in your sister's bedroom, praying to _something_ up there for things to get any better than this. You are sure that almost anything is better than _this._

You wonder if this is how Mom felt when Dad was still around and the four of you were still your own family. It almost hurts your brain to go that far back in time. You almost don't remember. The memories are fuzzy.

It makes you wonder if and how Mom ever comforted Dad after a rough night of partying. You know at some point he must have thrown up the contents of his evening into the toilet the same way you watched Amber go through the very same thing last night. You held her hair as she hurled in the bathroom sink, barely even making it there in time.

You wonder if Mom smelled the same dank odor of rotten dreams that you did as she cleaned up everything and you scrubbed the sink before everyone else in the world woke up.

But tonight you're not cleaning up Amber's literal, physically visible mess. This mess tonight is not something that can be fixed with soap and hot water and other various cleaning product you can find at the supermarket.

And that scares you. You can handle the sick part. You can handle cleaning up after your sister. There's nothing new there. Although as kids, it was toys, last night it was vomit.

Tonight you know this is something less obvious. Less simple. You don't know how to fix it. You don't know if you could.

As you watch your big sister drift off to sleep, still in her reeking street clothes, a small, lazy smile on her placid, sleeping face, you wonder how life could spiral this out of control. It happened to Dad. Why does it have to happen again to her?

You make yourself crazy with the weight of all your unanswered questions.

Why did she put herself in a position to be like Dad in that way? You know now more than ever that you can't pull another stunt like the drinking-beer-with-Grandpa thing again. No matter how innocent your intentions, how much self-control you think you have, you realize without a doubt that your Mom was right when she told you that you had it differently than other kids. You had it harder. Your big sister is living proof. You never want to touch alcohol again. You never want to feel that vulnerable, that unstable, that _high _and completely out of control.

You take a seat on the floor next to her bed and watch her for a while, wondering if she's dreaming. What she sees behind the back of her eyes?

You know she won't remember in the morning. She probably won't even thank you. She probably doesn't even know all the things you've done for her. The white lies you tell Mom when she leaves the room to make her stop worrying. Holding her hair while she pukes her guts out in the bathroom. Helping her to her room when she comes in falling down drunk. Then pretending all is well.

You contemplate what it means to do the right thing. You used to think it was avoiding confrontation at all costs. You used to think it was not dwelling on the past and living in the present. Loving your sister and being a good brother by lending her a hand when she has trouble. Not butting in when your input and what you have to say is so clearly unwanted.

But what if something happened? You feel like a walking public service announcement for _"Above the Influence"_ just waiting to happen and you haven't even smoked a single cigarette a day in your life, let alone a joint. But you feel just as guilty on the sidelines, seeing the effects of God knows what on your big sister. Surely this isn't the right thing. Waiting passively for things to change.

You have a sudden flash of Grandpa pulling you aside before dinner when you first came to live here almost a year and a half ago. "_Now grandson, you are a Braverman. Braverman blood courses through those veins of yours." _

He paused dramatically and his eyes shining with some sort of strange intensity. You wonder if he tells this to all his grandkids.

_"And do you know what makes a Braverman?" _Courteously, you waited patiently for the quasi-punch line/lesson that was inevitable.

_"Bravery, obviously." _You give the obligatory chuckle and cut the laughter when Grandpa turns solemn.

_"And a certain kind of courage. And strength. You're a quiet leader, grandson. I can tell. Don't know where ya got that from. You're mother wasn't exactly the shy type." _

Still you waited patiently. Upturning your lips slightly to appease him. You're used to Grandpa's ramblings. You smile even though you recognized the fact that you had no idea when you would see your dad again. You looked back up at Grandpa. He continued on sternly, shaking a finger in your general direction.

_"Just remember that. What it means to be a Braverman. We never give up. You're fearless, son. It might not seem that way right now, but you are. The Bravermans are braver than any man."_

You wanted so badly to roll your eyes but you refrained from doing so. You think that was an act of courage in and of itself.

But now you feel like you could cry. You don't feel very brave. You stand up and gently pull the covers up over your sister's shoulders. She doesn't stir.

You make a decision right then and there. You proceed with caution over to the other side of the room and pick up Amber's bag. You know without a second glance that it contains all her secrets. You hold it tightly to you as if afraid she will wake up and catch you in the act. But you know the thought is silly—she'll be dead to the world until at least solar noon tomorrow—later today? Whichever. It didn't matter.

You were telling. You make the decision then and there to show the bag, and whatever it held inside it, to Mom. And suffer the consequences.

You just know that anything is better than the waiting. Waiting to hear the drunken footsteps of your big sister as she arrives—for all intents and purposes of the word—'safely' home. Waiting to see if she'll come home at all. Waiting to see if she'll make it out alive. Be miraculously _fixed._ Stop being the girl you see your mother's eyes fill up with unshed tears for. Be back to her old self.

But you know now that life doesn't work that way. As you lay a hand on the doorknob, you realize life is too fragile to wait around just _hoping_ for things to change. Life is just too fragile to let these lies consume you all.

You're tired of being alone with the knowledge of your big sister's self-destruction. You can't handle it any longer.

You open the door and find your way to your own room, your own bed. You crawl in thankfully, hiding Amber's bag under your mattress, preparing yourself for the coming battle when you'll force your sister to really, truly make herself _think about getting clean. _You don't want her words to be empty any longer.

You're tired. And you want to break free from this misery, this downward spiral, these lies.

You know it will be hard and you certainly won't be receiving any 'thank yous' for it any time soon. But you can't let your sister live like this anymore. You won't.

_You're thinking about getting clean._


	2. Smoke Make Me Lose My Memories

_Smoke make me lose my memories. Drink make my body fail._

You stare at the ceiling for hours. Your head is a fog. Your thoughts slip in and out. Flashes. Glimpses. You see smoke.

_Her song is a lie._

Mom pokes her head in the door. She sees you lying face up on your bed. You realize that your shoes are still on. It's obvious you can't sleep. She gives you that sad smile. By now you're used to it. You know it's there even when you close your eyes. It's hard to face. You know it's an unspoken 'thank you.' It's been a long day.

_'Thank you for telling me. I needed to know. I love you, kid.'_

So much is said in your avoided glance. You hate that you told and nothing has changed. Your big, bad sister snuck out. Again. Nothing is new.

You know Mom wonders whose car she left in. You know she wonders if she'll be back by morning. But your own mother is just as helpless as you. You squeeze your eyes tight. It shouldn't have to be this way. You wonder if having a real, live dad would make this any easier. But then you wonder if _anything_ could make this any easier.

As you doubt, you avoid Mom's gaze. You have nothing to say. You gave all the secrets away with morning. You are reminded how like the word, _mourning,_ it sounds. You are sure it's not just some funny coincidence.

There is nothing left in you. Your fight has fled and it leaves you hollowed. You wish Amber could see the mess she's left your already fragile family in. You feel broken.

You hear the door click shut after a few more silent, still moments. No one knows what to say. What to do. You think this is all your fault.

You couldn't save her. You did it all wrong. What were you thinking? There had to be a better way to have brought Mom out of the dark. You remember 'hindsight is 20/20.'

And so you do the only thing you can think of at the moment.

You stare at the ceiling. Even with your eyes trained up there, you know the clock on your nightstand has long since been past blinking midnight. Your head is a fog. Stranded in a maze, a labyrinth of sorts. Everything seems murky, heavy. You wonder if this is what it's like to feel high. You doubt it. You feel pretty low, actually. An insignificant, naïve little brother who can't do anything.

You wonder what makes someone worth saving.

More thoughts unwillingly slip in and out. Again, you see flashes. Glimpses. You think you smell smoke.

Nine hundred ninety-nine seconds later and you now see her face right up there dancing on the ceiling. Sleep clouds your vision. You think you see her, hazy in the shades and circles of smoke rings she's trailing around from the joint between two fingertips.

You think you see her mouth open wide in laughter and her eyes squint in hysterical amusement. But you can't hear it. You don't know why she's laughing or who she's with. You don't get the joke. The laughter's probably at you. You think you see her point a finger. You can't hear a thing.

Your fault.

You're losing your grip. You can't believe you led her out to another night on the town. She practically ran away from you, her own brother. You told Mom and your older sister ran away screaming. You should have known.

But you don't think you could have foreseen the way she detached herself from Mom and hit her for good measure. You don't think you've ever seen her feelings displayed more clearly. You wonder if you'll ever get this morning out of your head.

You feel it already inscribed in the inside your heart— the way Mom clutched her hand to her cheek. It slipped to her chest and anchored above her heart. You know she felt the pain etch out a place inside. An unwanted, permanent tattoo. Another scar. You feel it, too.

You're losing steam. You feel your eyes fluttering. No. You tell yourself you can't. You have to be up when your sister gets home. She _will_ come home. You _will_ help her. Make sure she's okay. Alive. You want desperately to apologize, to find another way to make her right.

But it's useless. You're useless.

You fall asleep to the madness.

_Smoke make me lose my memories._

You think you dream you hear a voice. You think it sounds like Mom. She says, _"Honey, get up. There's been an accident."_

All you see is the blackness. You still can smell the inexplicable scent of smoke wafting through. You wonder what kind of dream this is.

The voice grows louder now. It sounds close to tears. There's a slight bit of pressure on your arm. _"Drew, honey, come on. It's Amber."_

You sit up. You are fully awake. You've woken up to a nightmare. Somehow you always knew it would come to this.

You say, _"Mom, what—" _You struggle with words. You think your voice resonates oddly in your own ears. It sounds strangled. _"What are you talking about?"_

She looks at you with sad, sad eyes. You can see they're shining, though the room is dark. You think that by having her say the words a second time, it can somehow, magically be taken it back. Reverse the damage that's been done.

But she raises her shoulders in a feeble, forced shrug. _"Honey, I don't know what happened. Amber was in a car accident. I can't explain any further. We have to get to the hospital. Now."_

You feel yourself nod numbly. You hear yourself say, _"Okay."_

You don't know what commands you to follow your Mom out the door, but somehow you do. Somehow you're buckling your seatbelt and watching blindly as Mom races through the sleeping universe, lit by glowing street lights lining the highway.

You watch a lamp flicker and sputter, shining unsteadily, until at last it vanishes. Flicks off with one last little feeble flash. Goes out. Dead.

_Drink make my body fail._


	3. Make My Body Fail

**Author's note: Hi all. Your reviews made me as giddy as a little school girl, not gonna lie. So yeah, you're all pretty wonderful and I thank you very kindly for your words and even just taking the time to read my story.**

**If you'd like to check it out, I made a sort of 'book cover' (picture) for this story. The link is in my profile if you're curious…**

**Also, I apologize for the lengthy duration between now and my last update. I felt you all deserved something better than what I had originally written, so yeah. Here ya go. I felt almost pretentious writing it, but hopefully it wasn't a miss.**

**Okay. I'll be shutting up now. Enjoy, please.**

_Make me lose my memory_

In the hospital waiting room, you watch the morning sun rise through the panes of the clean, glass windows. Your mind replays the events of the last few weeks. You search yourself to find a time you can go back to when everything was normal. As normal as normal can be with a family like yours.

Family. Somehow you feel you'll never be normal again.

Mom paces the floor. She's long since past pretending everything will turn out okay. She's just as frightened of life— death — as you are. You act like you can't see her red eyes or her anxiously biting her nails down to the beds. You think the last time you saw her like this was the night before you left Dad behind for the very last time in Fresno. No, you decide even that can't compare. This is something else entirely. At least you all knew your father would go on breathing.

You stare blankly at your hands. This is something else entirely.

_Hanging around 'til two or three_

You're sorry. So sorry. You're guilt-ridden. You don't want this to be her deathbed, her end. You still have no idea what's going on.

Grandma and Grandpa say nothing by your side. They arrived roughly an hour after you. Already it is past five o'clock in the morning. Mom is still pacing. She hasn't stopped. Her tears are silent. You see her shiver in her thin sweater. You too feel the cold wind. You wonder if the rest of the world feels it, too.

You stare blankly at your hands. This is something else entirely.

_Make my body fail_

When the sun is not yet halfway up the sky, Aunt Julia, Uncle Joel and Syd come rushing in. They each hug Mom in turn and your heart painfully constricts and your eyes itch as Mom's knuckles turn white, holding on for dear life to her living, breathing _family._

When Uncle Adam quickly strides in with Aunt Kristina, Max and Haddie and even Uncle Crosby, too, eventually comes running, you feel the enormity of this _accident…_this _tragedy…_ sinking in. Now that the whole clan is here, waiting, hugging, sad-faced, you fear the worst.

You stare blankly at your hands. This is something else entirely.

_Thinking_

You think about time. You look at the clock on the wall and for once in your life you wish the hands would move slower; if it meant she'd be here longer, breathing, smiling, alive. But you can't stop time. You can't do anything. You sit and feel small. Just a little kid again, waiting for his sister to come around. Except this isn't the same. No, not at all. This is something else entirely. The stakes are higher here. You fear the unknown and it worries you.

For the briefest of moments, you almost envy her: lying still in her hospital bed, unthinking of life and death and consequences, the whole family nearby with only her in their thoughts.

You and your cousin Max must be of the same, feeble mind. You wonder if you possibly have some undetectable form Asperger's too. Maybe that would explain how you're feeling right now…truly starting to hate your own sister in this moment. You're starving and cold and numb and you're beginning to think the only person on the planet that makes any sense at all and the only one who has any hope of understanding how you're presently feeling, is your young autistic cousin.

"_So if Amber's not going to die, and even if she was going to die, we're not doctors. We can't do anything to help. Just sitting here isn't helping."_

By now Max is up and out of his seat, embarrassing your aunt and uncle by making such a scene. But you understand how he feels. His words ring sharp in your ears. If you could cry right then, you would. But you can't. Your eyes are frozen to the floor. You suddenly wonder what Mom must be thinking through all of this. Her eyes are surely streaming waterfalls by now.

And with that in mind, you snap out of it, the bitterness. You know you can't resent your sister for this. She's been stupid and reckless and yes, impetuous. But she's your sister. You just want her alive.

In helpless horror, you observe Grandpa as he stands up to his full height. _"Max. You will eat the frickin' Danish."_

With a sense of unyielding shame, you listen as Max commands your grandfather to shut up and the silent, breathless gasps and halting footsteps of passing doctors and nurses.

You barely hear Aunt Kristina apologize profusely for her son who doesn't realize he no longer feels the same way as you.

Amid an unbearably powerless sense of _déjà vu_, you watch as your aunt takes her son by the arm. Horrible recognition dawns on you as Max pulls away, hitting her in the process. In your mind, Aunt Kristina's face fades into your mother's, and Max's implodes, giving way to Amber's. In your mind, you hear her heartless parting words clearly as if she were right here in the room with you. You swear you even hear the rumble of the car driving away. Forever ago, it still seems.

You stare blankly at your hands. This is something else entirely.

_Make me lose my memory_

When the waiting room calms down after the outburst, you are assigned the job of calling Dad. Again. You need more than all your ten fingers to count the number of times his cell has gone straight to voicemail. _"Hey. It's me. You know what to do."_ Beep.

You take a deep breath. You hate that you hear his voice more often through the phone than not. You hate that it all sounds so cold and unfeeling. _You know what to do._ Yes, you think to yourself. You know what to do. He's never been around to show you. You learn it all on your own.

You shake the feeling and try to focus on the task at hand. Even though the rest of the family is here, Mom told you to call him. You just wish he would finally answer.

You take a deep breath and leave a message at the beep. You try to keep your voice steady. You can't let the anger, resentment or tears get to you. That was always Amber's job.

_"Hey, Dad. It's me again. Drew." _You speak into the phone, standing in the waiting room, a safe distance from disappointed eyes, as if you needed to clarify, as if you really needed to remind your father of his own son's voice…his own son's name.

You're not sure of anything anymore.


End file.
